A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise.
"Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Sunday, July 30, 2006

on a plane which fails to take off three times, takes off with an engine that still sounds faulty, this is the captain speaking do not panic, lands again to pick up more weight and again sounds like a disaster when it takes off

I must admit I have read many books. When I disappear, all those volumes will change imperceptibly; the margins will become wider, the thought more cowardly. Yes, I have talked to too many people, I am struck by that now; to me, each person was an entire people. That vast other person made me much more than I would have liked. Now my life is surprisingly secure; even fatal diseases find me too tough. I'm sorry, but I must bury a few others before I bury myself.

on a plane, going back to a new place, with just a pair of trousers, a shirt and a memory stick, [only] the first chapter of the greek translation

- You remind me of Antisthenes, the prophessor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a bond-woman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.They made ready to cross O'Connell street.

HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!

and on going back, for the first time, with no foolish patience for irrealisms or sufficient reasons, quite willing to abandon literature

Everything here seems chaotic. Do you see those little streams? Not one of them runs in a straight line. And those ponds, which are neither round, nor square, nor oval, nor regular in any shape or form? And all these little pointed particles sticking up like bristles all over the globe and which have torn the skin off my feet? [...] Frankly, what makes me think there is no one here is that, as I see it, no one with any sense would want to live here.

Friday, July 28, 2006

In psychology, in the bottomless fraud of mere inwardness, which is not by accident concerned with the 'properties' of men, is reflected what bourgeois society has practised for all time with outward property. The latyer, as a result of social exchange, has been increased, but with a proviso dimly present to every bourgeois. The individual has been, as it were, merely invested with property by the class, and those in control are ready to take it back as soon as universalization of property seems to endanger its principle, which is precisely that of with-holding. Psychology repeats in the case of properties what was done to property. It expropriates the individual by allocating him its happiness. Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia, #39

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

There you are, in all your innocence, Sitting among your daffodils, as in a picture Posed as for the title: 'Innocence.' Perfect light in your face lights it up Like a daffodil. Like any one of those daffodils It was to be your only April on earth Among your daffodils. In your arms, Like a teddy bear, your new son, Only a few weeks into his innocence. Mother and infant, as in the Holy portrait. And beside you, laughing up at you, Your daughter, barely two. Like a daffodil You turn your face down to her, saying something. Your words were lost in the camera. And the knowledge Inside the hill on which you are sitting, A moated fort hill, bigger than your house, Failed to reach the picture. While your next moment, Coming towards you like an infantryman Returning slowly out of no-man's-land, Bowed under something, never reached you - Simply melted into the perfect light.

-Ted Hughes

Loss only works in a state of transference from one reader to the next.